Ad Aeternum
by stcrmpilot
Summary: An officer at the end of their rope faces the greatest decision of their lives with a draft-dodger in the Wild-Lands.


**A/N**: So, a few things for context:

\- This takes place near the end of the Last Great Time War  
\- Alphistar here is the tenth regeneration of the Time Lord later named Solis. That's their given name, which they don't use anymore due to its connection with the war and their many questionable actions  
\- Liras is their childhood friend from the Prydonian Academy. A pacifist and skilled engineer, he fled the Capitol before the start of the war and hid beyond the mountains around the Capitol. For most of the war, he and Alphistar are not on speaking terms due to their former enthusiastic support for the war and their involvement with the CIA  
\- "Tau" is Alphistar's nickname from the Academy

Alphistar later does steal a TARDIS and leave Gallifrey, and they're on the run for several years before the end of the war. As a side note, I am literally always down to talk about any of their regens and would probably die if the opportunity presented itself.

* * *

"Oh, R–"

Liras' knees nearly give out in his rush to stumble away from the figure standing in the corner of his room. Catching himself against the dresser, he knocks over a number of items and sends a glass to shatter against the floor, and he claps his hand over his mouth to prevent any more noise escaping, as if that would save him from detection. For a too-long moment he thinks his hearts might stop beating for good. Then he manages to identify the shadowy figure.

"Wh–" He sags against the dresser in relief, and wishes fervently there was a Gallifreyan expletive strong enough to express how he feels. "Alphistar," he hisses. "What in Rassilon's name are you doing here?"

Alphistar shifts from their position leaning against the wall and, unruffled by his surprise, wanders smoothly across the small room and picks up a large shard of glass.

"Well, that is the root of the issue, isn't it?" they muse, turning the glass between their fingers. They aren't talking to him; they hardly even seem to care that he's in the room, though then again that isn't anything new. Then they toss the piece of glass onto the dresser and meet his eyes. "Am I not allowed to stop by for a visit?"

"Well, no, actually, you aren't," he snaps. His hearts are still racing, his already frayed nerves aching from the fright. He hides it by crouching to pick up the rest of the glass.

"You don't stop by," he mutters, "you never have."

"Perhaps I wanted a change of scenery."

He glances up. They're dressed in a civilian's crimson robes, missing their collar and their staser pistol, but standing over him, bathed in the blood-red evening light streaming from the window, they still cut an imposing figure. They stand straight and attentive, as always, and their expression is casually neutral, but it's the sort of calculated neutrality they wear when they feel threatened. That's not so strange; even Liras has only seen them truly relaxed on a handful of occasions. There's something else hiding behind their eyes, he's sure.

But if they want to play games, he knows there's nothing he can do to dissuade them. "I was not under the impression that you enjoyed change all that much," he remarks, returning to his task. "Nor did I believe you knew the codes to my security systems."

"If I want to know something, I find it," they say.

He chuckles. From anyone else, it would be a threat. From them it's just verbal jousting, meant to distract from the fact that they have, for no apparent reason, sought out his company.

"And what of those watching you?" he points out. "Won't you be missed in the Capitol?"

"I, ah… I have taken a shore leave. Of sorts." Their tone becomes suddenly serious. "I haven't been followed, I'm certain of it."

Giving up on the smaller pieces, he picks himself up and carefully empties his handful of glass onto the dresser, making a mental note to sweep later. He glances towards the window. "Is that a possibility?" he asks quietly.

They only shrug. Turning away, they clasp their hands behind their back and begin pacing the width of the room, graceful and unhurried. Liras is certain he's never seen them pace, not in this body. It sets him on edge, regardless of how calm they're acting; a few millennia of scattered correspondences have made him as close to an expert on them as it's possible to be, and he knows when something is wrong.

"What are you doing here?" he wonders. A thought occurs to him. "Are we going to be attacked? Is that why you've returned?"

"Of course we're going to be attacked," they snap, rounding on him. "That's not a question." And like a pond disturbed, they calm once more, and their expression smoothes into neutrality. "I came to see you," they say.

Apprehension stirring in his chest, he takes a tentative step closer. When they don't react, except to eye him suspiciously, he reaches out and touches the fabric of their sleeve, sending a tiny whirlwind of dust spinning into the sunset light. They look too small in these robes, he reflects, even standing several inches taller than him. Or perhaps it's the new lines in their face, the dark circles under their eyes. He's never known them to look small before; in spite of all the teasing and griping, he finds himself distinctly worried.

"Something's wrong," he says plainly. "What is it?"

For a fraction of a nanospan, agony pinches their features. They've seen the concern in his eyes and it terrifies them. They open their mouth as if to speak—to answer him or to deny anything is wrong, he isn't sure—but they decide on neither and shut their mouth. They hesitate for a moment longer, looking on the edge of tearing in half; then their expression hardens with resolve and, quite suddenly, they lean down and press their lips fiercely to his.

It takes him a moment simply to register what's happened. This close, he can smell the acrid smoke clinging to their clothes and hair, drowning the scent of earthy spice that they've come to favour in this body. He can smell blood, but isn't sure whether it's on them or whether it's a memory, because their telepathic barriers are out of commission (_shredded,_ he reflects, horrified, ripped apart by the strength of their emotions) and with the contact comes a slew of scents and sounds and feelings that nearly bring him to his knees. When his brain finally catches up, he doesn't yank away; he knows they're trying to goad him into an equally fierce reaction—doesn't matter what, as long as they end up hurt. He ducks his head to break the kiss, and lifts a hand to gently cup their gaunt cheek.

"Alphistar…" he says softly.

"I… I'm sorry." Their voice is hardly even a breath. "I don't…"

"It's okay," he murmurs, "I know. It's okay." He raises his head without stepping back, and finds all pretence gone from their face. Their eyes shine with unshed tears. Feeling that, for once, his affection could not possibly be rejected, he strokes his thumb across their cheekbone, and purses his lips sadly. "What happened?" he implores. "Tell me, please, I– I can help."

Their lower lip trembles. They look down and fix their eyes on the floor, and their tone becomes unnervingly even once more. "No," they say. "You can't." They give a little shrug, nonchalant. "What could you possibly fix?"

He only avoids feeling hurt because they walk away from him as if he isn't there at all, letting his hands fall without acknowledgment. They turn and study his bed for a moment before sitting delicately on the edge. He opens his mouth to ask what they're doing, and stops when they reach for their calf and pull a thin gold knife from a holster he hadn't even noticed. Warning bells ring in his head—not for the first time, he's truly unsure of what they'll do next, and he flinches when they move—but they only turn the knife so they're gripping the blade and offer the handle to him.

"Quickly, if you don't mind," they say, brisk and businesslike. "Through both hearts. It'd be terribly rude of me to regenerate in your house."

He blinks, his brain short-circuiting yet again. "Wh– you want me to… what?"

"If this is your idea of _quick_," they grumble, "I believe I've come to the wrong person."

He stares at them, bewildered. Anger and concern battle for dominance in his mind—_have they gone completely mad? _he wonders to himself, and then _how dare they come to use me as an executor?_—but, registering the need for delicacy, he shakes his head and eases the knife from their grasp, careful not to cut their hand. Relief flickers in their eyes for a moment, utterly foreign to their face, until he places the knife on the dresser and sits on the bed beside them. They watch it blankly for a moment, then turn a dark, furious gaze on him.

"Why would you ask that of me?" he murmurs.

"It wasn't a request."

"Oh, don't start," he sighs. "I'm not one of your little soldiers, you can't order me around."

"I can." Their voice is a growl, their pale eyes seem to stare right past his psychic barriers, and suddenly he feels a certain kinship with all the people they've faced down in an interrogation room. "I can make you do it. I can tear your mind to shreds and put it back together as I like."

"You can't," he says. "You could never. Especially not now."

"You have no idea what I could do," they hiss.

"I have, actually." Frustration growing, he stands, looking down at them. He's keenly aware of the fine line he's walking with them right now, but something tells him they haven't done anything but bluff since they arrived and he's tired of their posturing. "You've come out here to get me to do your dirty work because you can't do it yourself. Because you can't face whatever's happened and _fix _it." Their eyes drop to the floor then, brow furrowing in a completely different way from their defiant glare.

"You're not in any position to make threats," he warns. "I know you. You're a coward. If you want to die so badly, go back to the Capitol and find another battle to fling yourself at."

He narrowly avoids flinching as soon as his words reach his ears, but he holds his ground. They don't manage as well; they blink, as if physically stung, and in the tense moment that he waits to see whether they'll cut his throat in retaliation he watches their gaze defocus, their attention slipping from the room. Their posture sags.

"They're gone," they say suddenly.

He hesitates, an icy sense of dread picking at his hearts. "What?"

They look at him, as if they can't even see him, and their tone turns acerbic. "They died. My _little soldiers_. I failed and they died." A crooked smile quirks at the corner of their lips. "But you wouldn't understand that, would you? Hiding out here. You call me a coward; you astonish me with your boldness."

"Your redirection surprises no one," he retorts. "I never claimed to be brave."

They don't respond. Suddenly they look so tired, so defeated, that he almost regrets his harshness. He sits next to them again, close but not touching, and studies their face.

"What happened?" he asks again.

They breathe a deep sigh, all the fight draining out of them. "It'd be impossible to recount," they say quietly. "I made a mistake. I shouldn't have…" They trail off. "Finally got too bold, I suppose." Their expression turns sour. "But I won," they mutter. "The War Council congratulated me. I've won them an _exemplary _burnt-out husk of a world. Rassilon…" They close their eyes, and a shudder runs through their body. He isn't sure whether they've failed to complete a thought or whether they're taking his name in vain.

"I can't go back," they say hoarsely, shaking their head. "I can't do this anymore, I can't. You– you have no idea what I've _done_, what I've had to do, you haven't seen it. You haven't heard them scream, _felt _them being ripped from history…" They look up and meet his eyes, startling him with their abruptness. "I don't know what to do, Liras," they whisper. "Please, I–"

Abruptly, they slide from the bed and drop to their knees on the floor in front of him. Glass crunches under their boots; if he weren't busy being shocked by their confessions, he would usher them up so they don't cut themself, but he's been utterly left in the dust.

"Please," they implore, their eyes wide with terror and shining with tears. "Don't make me go back. Don't let them send me back, I can't go back, don't let the Matrix have my mind. I know, I _know _I've done nothing to deserve such an easy death, but please just– just don't make me do it."

He stares for a moment, his hearts slowly sinking as he processes their request. Then he makes up his mind and tugs them off the floor. "Don't beg," he whispers, carefully plucking slivers of glass out of the fabric of their trousers. "Oh, don't do that, it doesn't suit you." His voice cracks, just slightly, and he clears his throat. "You are my dearest friend," he says waveringly, "even after everything, and although I can't stand to see what this war has done to you I would not kill you if I could. Let me help, please. I can help you, you can run away, you can hide from the Daleks and the Time Lords. You can start over."

"No," they laugh, "no, I can't. They'd hunt me down, they'd never stop. That's how you would have me live? A _renegade_?"

"You're quick, and smart," he says, unable to keep a note of desperation from his voice. "Lesser Time Lords than you have succeeded, you wouldn't be the first."

They fall silent, and he becomes aware of the tremble in their lean frame; he can feel it through the bed. He takes their hand in his and squeezes, hoping to steady them. For a long time, neither of them speak. Then:

"If I left," they murmur, slow and unsteady, "we would lose. I would condemn Gallifrey to destruction. The– the betrayal of a high-ranking officer, so late… it would cause chaos. How could… how could I do that? I– I can't _abandon _them." They hesitate, as if unsure whether their thoughts should be voiced. "Or you."

A chill runs down his spine at the finality in their tone. He's no expert on fighting, he doesn't know what the War Council has planned—he has put immense effort into maintaining his ignorance, and the state of them lately makes him glad he did it. They know much better than he what would happen if they left. But it's a reality of his life now, mutually assured destruction, and it has been for a very long time. It's numbed him; for his part, he isn't even sure it's undeserved. It's selfish, he knows, and short-sighted, and entirely morally reprehensible, but he'd see the planet burn before he sends his friend back to fight.

The desperation in their eyes comes terribly close to breaking his hearts but oh, he can't help the relief that fills him, hearing them speak openly for the first time in centuries. He can't help but celebrate the knowledge that they, at their very core, are the same being he's loved since their Academy days—that they have been cruel and cowardly out of ambition and fear, but in their hearts they still care so deeply for the lives in their charge that they would rather sacrifice themself than risk more deaths. They've always minded the bigger picture so much more than he.

He's staring, at this point. Alphistar tilts their head, wondering what he's thinking.

A ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. "Oh, Tau," he says quietly. "I thought I'd lost you."

They blink in surprise at the use of the long-dead nickname, and a multitude of emotions flicker over their face. They look as though they're about to speak—to protest, to apologize or to thank him, he can't possibly know—but they only press their hand over their mouth and turn away, crumpling in on themself and burying their head in their hands as their body starts to shake. It's a moment before he even realizes that they're crying. A sympathetic ache tugging at his hearts, he wraps an arm around their shoulders and pulls them close, silently letting them tire themself out.

They shrug him off once they calm down, refusing to look at him as they wipe tears from their eyes.

"I didn't know you still did that," he says, just a bit too soft to really be joking.

They offer him a weak smile. "Nor did I," they admit.

He purses his lips sadly. "Stay with me?" he requests. "For tonight. I… I think you shouldn't be alone."

To this, they acquiesce; he knows it's because they're too exhausted to argue, but he hopes the prospect brings them some comfort as well. Too relieved to spare much regard for either of their egos, he leans forward and touches his forehead to theirs, doing his best to send them calming feelings. Their mind is closed to him once more, but he watches them sag and relax, just slightly.

"I could have you locked up for that," they murmur, without moving away.

"You couldn't," he replies. He draws back gently and stands, intending to fetch a broom to clean up the remaining glass.

"Liras," says Alphistar, before he reaches the door. He turns.

"I don't deserve any of this," they say. Although their voice remains neutral, he understands it to be a warning; _I'll let you down, if you do this for me. I could tell you things that would make you run from me. _

"No," he says, just as even. "No, I don't think you do. But you will, in time. Have to start somewhere."

He has a moment to register their confused look before he resumes his path, leaving them to their thoughts, and despite it all he takes a meagre pleasure in knowing he's won this round.

_Lots of firsts today,_ he muses, smiling sardonically. He only hopes for one more.


End file.
